The Poets Of The Tomb by Henry Lawson

[Heather]

Thought I'd share this piece of Lawson satire. I love it..

The Poets Of The Tomb
by Henry Lawson
The world has had enough of bards who wish that they were dead,
'Tis time the people passed a law to knock 'em on the head,
For 'twould be lovely if their friends could grant the rest they crave --
Those bards of `tears' and `vanished hopes', those poets of the grave.
They say that life's an awful thing, and full of care and gloom,
They talk of peace and restfulness connected with the tomb.

They say that man is made of dirt, and die, of course, he must;
But, all the same, a man is made of pretty solid dust.
There is a thing that they forget, so let it here be writ,
That some are made of common mud, and some are made of GRIT;
Some try to help the world along while others fret and fume
And wish that they were slumbering in the silence of the tomb.

'Twixt mother's arms and coffin-gear a man has work to do!
And if he does his very best he mostly worries through,
And while there is a wrong to right, and while the world goes round,
An honest man alive is worth a million underground.
And yet, as long as sheoaks sigh and wattle-blossoms bloom,
The world shall hear the drivel of the poets of the tomb.

And though the graveyard poets long to vanish from the scene,
I notice that they mostly wish their resting-place kept green.
Now, were I rotting underground, I do not think I'd care
If wombats rooted on the mound or if the cows camped there;
And should I have some feelings left when I have gone before,
I think a ton of solid stone would hurt my feelings more.

Such wormy songs of mouldy joys can give me no delight;
I'll take my chances with the world, I'd rather live and fight.
Though Fortune laughs along my track, or wears her blackest frown,
I'll try to do the world some good before I tumble down.
Let's fight for things that ought to be, and try to make 'em boom;
We cannot help mankind when we are ashes in the tomb.

[Neville Briggs]

It would be interesting to know just who he had in mind as a bard of tears and vanished hopes.

[Heather]

It's a great poem isn't it? I love this line.

That some are made of common mud, and some are made of GRIT;

[Stephen Whiteside]

Methinks he protests too fiercely. Was this written before or after his suicide attempt?

[Peely]

G'day All

I believe that this one was written as part of the "bush controversy" debate in 1892 between Banjo, Henry and a few other poets (Edward Dyson, Francis Kenna and another that took the pen name HHCC).

Lawson kicked off the debate with his poem called "Borderland" (later retitled as "Up the Country").
Paterson followed with "In Defence of the Bush".
Dyson replied with "The Fact of the Matter".
Lawson re-entered with "In Answer to 'Banjo' and Otherwise" (retitled as "The City Bushman").
HHCC joined in with "The Overflow of Clancy".
Francis Kenna entered with "Banjo of the Overflow".
Paterson countered with "In Answer to Various Bards" (retitled as "An Answer to Various Bards").
Lawson finished with "Poets of the Tomb".

Some of the sources that I have read in the past have added other poems to this list, but these probably weren't really part of the debate as such (for example, Paterson's "The Man from Ironbark" that was answered by Lawson's "The Man from Waterloo").

Regards


John Peel

[Stephen Whiteside]

Well, Lawson's own death wish came soon enough, didn't it. Perhaps the seed had already been planted by the time he wrote this poem. Poor old Henry.

By the way, thanks for this incredibly researched bunch of information, John.

[Heather]

In 1939, Banjo Paterson recalled his thoughts about the Bulletin debate:
"Henry Lawson was a man of remarkable insight in some things and of extraordinary simplicity in others. We were both looking for the same reef, if you get what I mean; but I had done my prospecting on horseback with my meals cooked for me, while Lawson has done his prospecting on foot and had had to cook for himself. Nobody realized this better than Lawson; and one day he suggested that we should write against each other, he putting the bush from his point of view, and I putting it from mine. "We ought to do pretty well out of it," he said. "We ought to be able to get in three or four sets of verses before they stop us." This suited me all right, for we were working on space, and the pay was very small ... so we slam-banged away at each other for weeks and weeks; not until they stopped us, but until we ran out of material ...souce: wikipedia

[Heather]

Paterson's An Answer to Various Bards was published 1 October 1892. Lawson's The Poets of the Tomb was published the following week 8 Oct 1892.

You can just imagine how it must have sold papers in a time where there was no TV or radio and newspapers were the main source of news and often entertainment.

An answer to Various Bards
by Andrew Barton Paterson
Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in,
Mister Lawson, Mister Dyson, and the others of their kin,
With their dreadful, dismal stories of the Overlander's camp,
How his fire is always smoky, and his boots are always damp;
And they paint it so terrific it would fill one's soul with gloom --
But you know they're fond of writing about "corpses" and "the tomb".
So, before they curse the bushland, they should let their fancy range,
And take something for their livers, and be cheerful for a change.
Now, for instance, Mr Lawson -- well, of course, we almost cried
At the sorrowful description how his "little 'Arvie" died,
And we lachrymosed in silence when "His Father's mate" was slain;
Then he went and killed the father, and we had to weep again.
Ben Duggan and Jack Denver, too, he caused them to expire,
After which he cooked the gander of Jack Dunn, of Nevertire;
And, no doubt, the bush is wretched if you judge it by the groan
Of the sad and soulful poet with a graveyard of his own.

And he spoke in terms prophetic of a revolution's heat,
When the world should hear the clamour of those people in the street;
But the shearer chaps who start it -- why, he rounds on them the blame,
And he calls 'em "agitators who are living on the game".
Bur I "over-write" the bushmen! Well, I own without a doubt
That I always see the hero in the "man from furthest out".
I could never contemplate him through an atmosphere of gloom,
And a bushman never struck me as a subject for "the tomb".

If it ain't all "golden sunshine" where the "wattle branches wave",
Well, it ain't all damp and dismal, and it ain't all "lonely grave".
And, of course, there's no denying that the bushman's life is rough,
But a man can easy stand it if he's built of sterling stuff;
Though it's seldom that the drover gets a bed of eiderdown,
Yet the man who's born a bushman, he gets mighty sick of town,
For he's jotting down the figures, and he's adding up the bills
While his heart is simply aching for a sight of Southern hills.

Then he hears a wool-team passing with a rumble and a lurch,
And, although the work is pressing, yet it brings him off his perch,
For it stirs him like a message from his station friends afar
And he seems to sniff the ranges in the scent of wool and tar;
And it takes him back in fancy, half in laughter, half in tears,
to a sound of other voices and a thought of other years,
When the woolshed rang with bustle from the dawning of the day,
And the shear-blades were a-clicking to the cry of "Wool away!"

Then his face was somewhat browner, and his frame was firmer set --
And he feels his flabby muscles with a feeling of regret.
But the wool-team slowly passes, and his eyes go slowly back
To the dusty little table and the papers in the rack,
And his thoughts go to the terrace where his sickly children squall,
And he thinks there's something healthy in the bush-life after all.
But we'll go no more a-droving in the wind or in the sun,
For out fathers' hearts have failed us, and the droving days are done.

There's a nasty dash of danger where the long-horned bullock wheels,
And we like to live in comfort and to get our reg'lar meals.
For to hang around the township suits us better, you'll agree,
And a job at washing bottles is the job for such as we.
Let us herd into the cities, let us crush and crowd and push
Till we lose the love of roving, and we learn to hate the bush;
And we'll turn our aspirations to a city life and beer,
And we'll slip across to England -- it's a nicer place than here;

For there's not much risk of hardship where all comforts are in store,
And the theatres are in plenty, and the pubs are more and more.
But that ends it, Mr Lawson, and it's time to say good-bye,
So we must agree to differ in all friendship, you and I.
Yes, we'll work our own salvation with the stoutest hearts we may,
And if fortune only favours we will take the road some day,
And go droving down the river 'neath the sunshine and the stars,
And then return to Sydney and vermilionize the bars.

[Heather]

Stephen, Lawson's attempt at suicide was in December 1902 (after the 1892 Bulletin debate) after his trip to England and the subsequent breakdown of his marriage and worsening of his personal circumstances. He died in 1922 from a cebrebral haemorrhage.

A biography here if anyone is interested.

http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/lawson-henry-7118

[Maureen K Clifford]

This post is terrific so much great info from Heather and Peely and such beautiful writing. I have thoroughly enjoyed reading whilst drinking my instant coffee (sadly not Billy tea) stirred with a spoon and not a twig.